THREE ROUNDELS.
I.
Love, though I die, and dying lave
My soul in Lethe endlessly,
Losing all else, I still would save
—Love, though I die—
Thy living presence, touch and sigh,
All that the golden moments gave
To vanished hours of ecstasy.
Then make thou great and wide my grave,
So wide we two therein may lie;
For sense of thee my soul will crave,
Love, though I die.